This Citadel Ain't Big Enough For The Two of Us
by ThatSassyCaptain
Summary: Or how transporters do as they are wont to do, and Leonard McCoy isn't at all happy about it. Based on chapter 4 of ReferenceGoddess' "It Never Happened In Middle Earth", written... ages ago? Possibly during my prom? Now available for your viewing pleasure!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Howdy, and welcome to another episode of: Things I Dug Up That Maybe Shouldn't've Ever Seen The Light of Day**

 **I am your host, filled with regret and pondering the ending of said drabble. Either way, I hope it's as funny as I'd intended it to be.**

He'd never let Scotty hear the end of this one, after making the engineer swear up and down that nothing would happen to him or the medical supplies. Something _sure had happened._

When he'd arrived with three years worth of hypos, bandages, and first-response kits in the middle of a battlefield, he'd quickly become familiar with the dangerous end of a battle-axe. So much for safe travels.

"Who are you?" The alien had said from beneath a great metal helmet, "An agent of Sauron?"

Doctor Leonard McCoy, MD, unprepared for this, glanced at his surroundings.

"I take it that this isn't Starbase 31. Blasted transporter…"

The business end of the axe prodded him in the stomach. McCoy, having no idea what else to do, raised his hands slowly.

"Now just hold on a second. I'm a doctor, not an agent of... Uh... Whoever it was you said. _Sharon_? I came to deliver medical supplies for this sector's outposts."

The alien barked out a laugh. "Surely you do not expect me to believe that you have never heard of the Dark Lord of Mordor? Where have you been for the last Age, eh? Living under a rock?" The alien's face turned serious. "I was born under a rock and I am quite familiar with that accursed name."

McCoy gulped. In the back of his mind, a little voice reminded him of the Prime Directive, and how a little man with a battle-axe might not know of Starbases and outposts. "What can I say, besides, 'I reckon I got lost somewhere'? It... It uh looks like you've got heavy casualties here. I'd like to offer my services as a medical professional. How's that for a show of good faith?"

For the first time in their conversation, the alien's axe was removed from McCoy's person. He took the opportunity to breathe a sigh of relief.

"A healer...? Surely you cannot expect me to believe..."

"A healer I am, and a darned good one if you ask Captain James T Kirk. Why I've patched him together so many times, I recon there's not a bone in his body I haven't had to set." Boy, was he glad the universal translator was spittin' this stuff right out.

The alien scrutinized him again, searching for any sign of falsehood. McCoy stood motionless. He was relaxed, but his hands were still raised. No reason to give this guy any provocation.

"Very well. You will come with me. Our armies have just returned from a grievous battle. Huh." The alien glanced around. "You have seen the aftermath for yourself. But, I have not heard of this Captain Kirk. Is he Gondorian? Not a man of Rohan, for I have fought closely alongside the Rohirrim!"

McCoy blinked. "Sure. Let's go with that." He stuck out a hand, hoping the (mostly) universal greeting was familiar here. "Leonard McCoy, healer extraordinaire."

The alien took his offered hand and shook it once. "Gimli, son of Gloin, magnificent axe-wielder!" McCoy took this, in part, to be some sort of warning. He for one had no plans to get back on the wrong end of that weapon, thank-you-very-much.

The alien Gimli gestured for McCoy to follow. The doctor sighed and bent to pick up the first of several silver crates. It was heavy. He got a good grip on the side handle and heaved. The crate hovered just above the ground. Good enough. McCoy hobbled after the armored alien.

"Hey! Wait up! I can't carry all these by myself. Is there anyone who can come pick 'em up? They've got uh… bandages and healing treatments inside."

Gimli stopped and turned back to McCoy. The doctor wasn't sure, but he thought the axe-wielding joker was smirking at him.

"Truly you are a physician and not a warrior. How wrong I was to judge you thus!"

McCoy scowled. "Ha ha. You're a riot. Now do you want these supplies or not? This is the stuff I need to treat your people."

He was getting strange looks from other warriors in the field. No one stopped him or even advanced in their direction. _Must've found myself a general or some such thing. Ain't nobody lookin like they'd mess with this feller, sure enough. Not that I would, even if he turned out to be your average Joe. This guy is nuts._

 **A/N: And there you have it! The first installment of what may not be a gripping drama to last the ages. Thank you for joining us on Tolerable Literature Theater. Tune in next time to see if I post the next bit as it was written, or scrap it entirely for something better.**

 **On an unrelated note, I'm tossing around the idea of a 'Dog Days' sequel, and am accepting feedback via a poll. Any responses would be most appreciated. Thanks, y'all.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: shorty short chapter.**

 ***checks last chapter's word count***

 **reg...** ** _regular length chapter_**

McCoy marveled at the great white city that loomed over the battlefield. Though still partially ablaze, it was magnificent to behold. He followed the alien further into the city, sweat forming on his brow. "Blasted heavy crate" he muttered.

About the time they reached the second level, a sudden commotion broke out in front of one of the damaged buildings. There was shouting and what looked like the beginnings of a brawl.

"What's goin' on up there?" McCoy hollered over the din. He followed as the alien pushed his way through the crowd.

At the center of it all, there was a group of armored men, taller but about as well-built as his alien guide. Many of them were engaged in restraining a man who looked to be by McCoy's best guess a 'knight in shining armor'. This guy certainly looked the part. He was fitted out in as much armor as the others, if not a little nicer and cleaner. It was the whole nine yards: helmet, sword, chestplate, you name it.

"Release me! I must go to her! I must see her alive and well!"

"You are injured, my lord! We must take you to a healer yourself!"

The burly knight growled and redoubled his efforts to escape. As they neared, McCoy could see the red flowing in rivulets down some of the man's armor. He was wounded, and badly so if the blood seeped through all that padding.

"Be a pal and hold this, would ya?" The doctor dumped his crate into the arms of his guide. He pushed through the mob, glaring his Doctor's Glare at anyone who stood in his way. He cut through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.

"Whoa there! Take it easy son, you're gonna hurt yourself doin' that!" The entire group of warriors stopped to look at him. They seemed, well, shocked that somebody had the nerve to interrupt their business. McCoy scanned the stunned faces before honing in on his patient.

"Where's the fire?" Without waiting for a response, he moved right in into the group, his medical eye searching the knight's face for signs of atypical bruising. For all he knew, the potentially rational man could have a concussion, and was thus behaving irrationally. "They're right, you know. You oughta get yourself to a hospital- to uh... A healer right away." He looked up to find the man's eyes locked onto him. McCoy studied the gaze. It was laser focused and something else... Stunned? Relieved? He didn't have time for this. The man was bleeding out right in front of him and none of his men had the sense to just carry him off.

"Hey you, friend," He called Gimli, "Mind directin' me to wherever it is you were takin' me before? This man needs a doctor, pronto." The shorter man nodded, somewhat amazed as well.

It took some time to get to the 'House of Healing', as his guide had provided. In the end, McCoy had to almost carry his patient inside. The big man had done nothing but stare, slack jawed, at the doctor until he'd almost collapsed from his injuries.

"Get him a bed." McCoy ordered. At least the nurses here seemed to listen to him. "Alright." He turned back to the warrior Gimli. "I'll patch him up, then you point me in the direction of the worst casualties. Here, lemme get that..." McCoy reached for the crate and was surprised when Gimli withheld it.

"Nonsense, Master Healer. I shall carry it for you, seeing as how you struggled so valiantly with it before. Nay, you are not suited to this kind of task."

McCoy's scowl deepened, but he didn't have time to argue. "Fine! Just get me to the blasted ER before I put you there myself!" He followed the snickering warrior, grumbling, "I'll show him just what kinda task I'm suited for. Wonder if he's ever had Andorian Shingles..."

He patched up the knight. That took some doing, since there were so many pieces of armor to pry off first. Gimli helped, on account of him having some knowledge of armor in the first place. It seemed their knight had been lucky more than a few times today. There were slices through his skin corresponding with the weak points in his armor. In one spot, there was part of an arrow. He was pure luck the arrowhead didn't pierce all the way through.

McCoy finished his work and then trotted off after Gimli. For a shorter guy, he sure could move.

They arrived at last. Severe casualties. Triage. When he wasn't up to his knees in patients, he was up to his elbows in others. The first crate had gone quickly. McCoy called for the next, all the while bandaging what he could and instructing the new nurses on how to prepare sedatives. They classified him as a surgeon, which he could've told them save for the technological chasm and just enough of a language barrier. McCoy was assigned all the worst stab wounds, arrow cases, and… amputations… It was mighty fortunate he had those crates.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: There was no** ** _good_** **place to chop this one, so I just picked the least awful spot. See if you can read my intentions a mile off. I reckon this plot-twist isn't hard guessing.**

The lovely lady in charge of this den of blood and bandages was Ioreth. She was well beyond his years, but McCoy knew she was in charge the moment he heard her speak.

"You're doing what with that now, sir?"

He paused with the hypospray poised over a writhing man's neck. So far, he'd been doing well to keep them hidden, opting to let the nurses fetch herbs while he dispensed medicine. Ioreth was no fool though.

"Trying to prevent infection." He answered honestly. What diseases this planet had, he couldn't hope to know. Developing vaccines in such a short time was impossible. He'd just do the best with what he had.

Ioreth locked eyes with him from across the cot. She was plainly over sixty, but McCoy wouldn't dare cross her. This was a woman in command of her realm, and he was but a visitor.

She surprised him with her response. "Will that do it?"

He nodded.

"Then get back to it, healer." Ioreth snapped her fingers and waded back into the thick of it. McCoy dispensed the hypo.

He threw himself into his duty. The hours marched. No watches changed, no chronometers told him when to stop and start. McCoy simply moved from one patient to the next. He lost himself in his work.

Of course, he had seen war. Starfleet Medical had sent him enough places in the early days, places torn asunder by phaser rifles, canons, all sorts of explosives. Few times had he seen such a multitude of folk laid low by the sword. He was surprised to see a handful were women. But false beards of horsehair did nothing to strengthen armor. They needed stitches as well as the rest. McCoy thanked the good Lord for his steady hands.

Working by candlelight was the hardest part. Oh, he would never bemoan the slim beam of a tricorder lamp ever again. The light may flicker, but his hands couldn't slip. He was a doctor, and these people were all patients, even if he didn't know where the blazes he was. Even if he couldn't see the other end of the room.

The candles had left and returned when he removed the last splinter from a Gondorian man's arm. This much he'd been able to pick up: half were Gondorian, half were from Rohan, though his tongue was still rolling around the identifier. There was much talk of horses with the… the Rohan men. They asked after their mounts like they'd do comrades, sometimes in contrary order than McCoy would've thought.

Gondorians, for the larger part, wanted word of their steward. The anesthetic was wearing off as McCoy bound the shrapnel-free wound. It seemed like he was due for another round of unanswerable questions if he didn't act fast.

"Is he… is it true?" The man rasped. McCoy cursed under his breath and fumbled for a hypo. "Has our king returned?"

"Heck if I know, mister, I'm just the help." He frowned. If this solider would just keep still… McCoy paused to steady himself on the table. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead, pausing as the blood there blurred.

A pair of hands wrapped around his, guiding the hypospray to its mark. After it emptied and dropped, there was an arm looped in his.

"Haven't stopped to eat or sleep, have you?" A longsuffering voice murmured. "Ought to tan your hide, sir, I should." He couldn't see straight, but his gut said Ioreth. The matronly healer steered him clear of the room.

"Don't'cha have somethin' better t'be doing than fussin' over me?" McCoy slurred. He felt somebody else get him by the other side, somebody bigger than Ioreth. This second party helped pull the bloodstained shirt off. Jim would have a field day knowing McCoy had ruined one of _his_ shirts for a change. The last straw was the pair of them trying to hustle him into a cot.

"Oh no you don't." He bolted back up and found _three_ pairs of hands shoving him back down. "I'm _needed_."

"Peace, fædyr- _healer._ All is well..."

Somebody bundled him into a blanket despite his struggles. There was a warm, earthy smell beneath his nose, and something herbal was poured past his lips.

 _Blast it all, Ioreth,_ he thought. McCoy slipped into a rock-heavy sleep.

* * *

It was there he awoke to the sounds of hushed debate. His head was spinning, and he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. McCoy groaned and shifted himself on the lumpy mattress. His quarters oughtn't smell faintly of copper.

His eyes shot open. The world was blurry and unfamiliar. As the room stopped spinning, McCoy began to recall where he was. _Oh right. The Dark Ages. Triage. What's-his-face... Gimli!_ He blinked. A cup of water came into focus just in front of his face.

It was the "knight"- _McCoy couldn't be sure what was what on this crazy backwater planet_ \- leaning over him with a look of concern.

"What happened?" McCoy tried to sit up, but the room turned carousel again.

"Ioreth said you would not stop to rest, so the decision was made for you." He offered the cup out and McCoy took it. If it weren't liable to make him vomit, he felt like he might slurp the whole thing in one go.

"What's got me laid up then? Where am I?"

McCoy's insistence to sit all the way up left the knight no choice but to help him. Worry lined his features, but McCoy didn't think anything of it at the time. He was too busy trying to get his eyes to focus.

"You are in the royal ward at the House of Healing. You... You collapsed while tending to the wounded. I met Ioreth in the halls. As I am quite well, I gave up my bed." The young man locked eyes with McCoy. "It is... nothing short of miraculous, what you have done and..." He trailed off, his eyes searching the floor for his next words. "If you are well, then perhaps..."

"Another miracle?" McCoy finished.

The man nodded. "It is Eowyn. She is... They say she is on the brink of... of..." He found McCoy's eyes again. "I cannot lose her again. Please."

The doctor sat up straighter. That was a lot to process. The royal ward meant _royalty_. And McCoy didn't want to think about just who he'd manhandled over the last few days. Sometimes it was easier to let sleeping patients lie. Unfortunately, this one was fixing to give him the run-around. _Well. Nothin' doin'._

"Get me in there. I'll see what I can do."


	4. Chapter 4

The man helped McCoy to his feet. Together, they found their way down the hall to the room where Eowyn was being kept. Two healers guarding the door almost denied them entry, but one of them recognized McCoy and let them pass. It seemed like he'd built himself a reputation.

The doctor took one look at the room and knew it was bad news. There was a whole host of people gathered around the two beds. He recognized Ioreth. Some of the others were unfamiliar. There was also another patient, looked like a child. What was going on around here?

The chatter died away as soon as the two men entered the room.

"Healer." It was Ioreth. She looked about as tired as he felt. Stood to reason that she'd ignore her own advice. Apparently it was a hallmark of CMO's everywhere. "Should you not be resting? We have the situation well in hand."

McCoy eyed the frail figures on the cots but nodded. "You're right. I trust you have it covered." He glanced over the myriad of faces before continuing, "But this man here is worryin' himself into a state and I'll be darned if I don't do anything I can to help him."

The knight at his side had the grace to look shamefaced, having dragged McCoy out of bed to a situation that seemed to be under control. It was more than uncomfortable. What did they think he was, some sort of wizard? Did they even have that sort of magical lore here? McCoy's eyes widened a fraction when he spotted a feller with pointed ears, but no Vulcan would wear their hair quite so illogically. His train of thought was soon interrupted.

"Ah." The voice came from behind them. "Eomer, will you not let the Healer rest?"

The knight- Eomer, apparently- spun around. McCoy was dragged with him and found himself face to face with… a vagrant of some kind. No, that wasn't quite right- the man had a sword- but he did look disheveled. Not somebody who belonged in the royal ward. Well, McCoy was one to talk. He supposed he must be a sight in his conspicuously short-sleeved shirt, but there was something even more odd about the stranger.

"We have sent Gandalf and young Bergil for the cure." The newcomer spoke up. "I should have you here to attend to Lady Eowyn when they return. Would you take the Healer to his pillow, my friend? I shall find you as soon as Gandalf appears."

Eomer nodded to whoever this charming vagrant was. "I... As you wish." He seemed deflated for an instant, but puffed up with a newfound energy. "As soon as Gandalf returns, not a moment later."

The vagrant nodded. "You have my word." Hardly more than a fly on the wall for this exchange, McCoy took the lapse in inclusion to people watch. There was something markedly unusual about the man in the dirty green cloak. The knight Eomer spoke to him as an equal or better. He reined in the obvious frustration he was feeling and delivered his capitulation with respect.

Eomer kept his gaze level for another moment before turning, dragging McCoy back down the long hallway.

"Who was that?" He was a little surer on his feet now. Time to get some more answers. "And just why'd they let him in here in the first place? He ain't a healer, not with his complete disregard for hygiene, I'll tell you that much!" Maybe some incendiary talk would get him the scoop.

At this, Eomer actually laughed out loud. "I have never heard Aragorn, heir of Isildur and rightful King of Gondor described in such terms! It is well that you are exhausted, or those in earshot might have had a few choice words to exchange with you!"

McCoy looked around, catching a glare or two before Eomer led him back to his cot. So this was the mysterious king all the Gondorians had been asking about. There was still no word on the steward, whoever the poor man might be, but this little tidbit might keep the restless patients in check.

"You must rest." Eomer insisted, a sudden seriousness creeping into his voice. "I would- It would not do to have you collapsing again."

McCoy sat down but made no move to go back to sleep. In fact, he was planning on getting back to work as soon as the man's back was turned. "Son, I've performed emergency surgery on a rock monster. I think I can handle-"

Before he could finish, the door burst inward. There was Gimli, a tray in hand and a smirk on his face. "Well, well! I had heard you had collapsed, Healer! What, did they have you try to lift a patient?"

"Hardy har, you axe-totin' lunatic." McCoy supposed some verbal sparring was in order. He couldn't stay sharp as Spock without constant practice. "Don't tell me you're my new Head Nurse! I'm not sure you could handle the strain."

"Perhaps not. I would grow tired of having to lift your arms for you!"

McCoy groaned. That was quick. "Do me one better. Pick up that axe of yours and just chop 'em off." He picked up the tin cup. "Getting' run through by a lance was twice as fun..."

Eomer's face darkened at the comment, and he fixed the doctor with a razor-sharp stare. Gimli made some counter-remark, but McCoy didn't register it. He felt very uncomfortable all of the sudden. Feigning ignorance of Eomer's reaction, he looked over at Gimli, who still stood in the doorway with the tray. It smelled like food, and his stomach was empty enough for an abrupt change in topic.

"Well, what're you waiting for? Surely your arms are getting tired, carrying that heavy tray for so long."

Gimli chuckled. "You would think so, but I am strong enough to handle a measly bit of bread and some soup."

It wasn't a measly amount of anything. At least, McCoy didn't think so. The soup was warm and tasted just about heavenly. He slurped happily while Gimli engaged Eomer in a low conversation he was all too eager to ignore. Folks walking around him on eggshells was one thing he was eager to stop. If he had to _prove_ he wasn't some fainting civilian, some greenhorn medic unused to the demands of Starfleet and _apparently_ unworthy of the respect of his equally-fresh crew-

Before he could lose himself in that line of thought, a messenger appeared in the open doorway.

"My King." The man was one of Eomer's people- McCoy's mind stumbled over _Rohirri? Rohirric? Rohimite?-_ and looked like he was in a hurry. "Gandalf has returned."

Eomer leapt up and ran into the hallway with a shout. "Ābīdan, fædyr! Èowyn! Ic tōcyme!"

McCoy stared at the empty doorway. "Did you catch any of that?"

Gimli looked on after the warrior, a hint of melancholy creeping into his features. There was a lot going on here McCoy didn't know. These people were familiar with each other, if not friends, and he felt odd being dragged through the middle of it.

"I am sorry, Healer, but I am not well-versed in the language of the Rohirrim, beyond that èo is the word for 'horse' and that 'Orc' translates across most languages." Gimli smiled again, but the expression wasn't so humor-filled as before.

"Huh. I'll have to ask him about that later. Speaking of uh... unusual occurrences... What can you tell me about that Aragorn guy? Eomer said he was the rightful king of Gondor?" McCoy smoothed the cot blanket absently. There _was_ a lot he didn't know about these people, infinitely much, and he couldn't keep operating in the dark. As long as nobody grilled him on where _he_ was from, he figured it was alright. He'd hand the Prime Directive to Jim, hiding the bottle of glue behind his back.

Gimli looked surprised before the knowing smile returned. "I forget that you are new to this realm, Healer... Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and rightful heir to the throne of Gondor." Gimli wore the expression of one who has just cleared everything right up.

McCoy simply stared at him. "Where's that, relative to here?"

After a long moment, he watched his companion's face fall. "You do not know of Gondor? It is unusual to say the least, for you are currently within its Capitol! 'Where is Gondor?' You are a strange one indeed, Healer McCoy!"

"Well, what can I say besides 'I'm from outta town'?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates! I've got my 3 WIPs on a rotation. If you track any of the others, this one always updates after 'Greatest Heroes' in my schedule. Just FYI.**

 **Enjoy!**

As it turned out, the bundle at the foot of the cot contained a clean tunic for McCoy to wear while his bloodstained uniform top went off to be cleaned. Dressed in his 'new duds', McCoy got back to work.

It was the _Rohirrim_ , a group of mostly cavalrymen as McCoy found out, who required the most attention at this stage. Apparently, they'd had a bad couple of months from the snippets of tales McCoy could piece together. There had been raids, the defense of a fortress, an attack on a neighboring enemy, and now the battle out in the field where they had taken on the brunt of the enemy's aggression for a time.

McCoy went about his work as he had before, not really considering anything beyond his next patient. The _Enterprise_ was possibly the furthest thing from his mind.

He had been cleaning up a wound when it happened. One of the captains of the Rohirrim had required surgery after an arrow pierced his shoulder. The removal had been touch and go for a while, but McCoy had managed get the arrowhead through and stitch the wound closed. He was just tying off the last thread when the rider stirred. Finishing quickly, McCoy turned to grab the little potion these healers were using to keep the worst cases out cold. Best spare the last three cases of hypos while he could. When he turned back around, he found the rider's eyes boring into him.

"I have passed then..." He sighed. "Hail, Marshal. It is good to see you again."

"Easy there, you're still with us. Most of your Marshals are out an' about already, nothin' to worry about."

The rider looked at him again, his brows bunching.

"Forgive me. I mistook you for another. You look much like Èothain, the former Third Marshal."

McCoy was taken aback. He blinked, staring down at the injured man like he'd suddenly grown a second head.

"You're kidding. Do I really?"

The skepticism in his tone must've tipped the man off. He chuckled wryly before answering. "I suppose you have seen the looks from some other Rohirrim, yes? The Marshal was much larger than you, Healer, and with hair much less strange."

McCoy supposed that was fair. Nobody on this crazy planet wore their hair short. And he reckoned these warrior types had 50 pounds on him at the least. But he had noticed the double takes from more delirious patients. He'd thought it was because of his hair or his clothes. Boy, was this an eye-opener.

"Well, I'm glad you had such a handsome Third Marshal." _Or whatever it was you said._ "How about I give you some more of the good stuff so you can nap a little easier?"

The man nodded gratefully and McCoy proceeded to knock him out in the safest way known to medieval medicine. But that got him thinking. Is that why he'd been treated so well by these Rohirrim?

He kept carrying on as he had before, armed with the semi-relevant knowledge. Things were going more smoothly now that the fires had been put out and the armies were gearing up to go back out. Oh, he'd heard plenty from Ioreth. They were going to some Black Gate to make some stand against the army of Sharon. Apparently, most of the war and general upheaval of late was this dark lord's doing.

It was discovered that one of the women in disguise and one of the captains were an item, and McCoy helped reunite the happy couple. After he and the orderly placed the stretcher they both took a break. There was a pitcher of water near the stack of linens, and now that McCoy was dressed like the locals, they took to showing him things.

"Kingsfoil." A nurse pushed a mortar and pestle into his hands. "We are to make tea for the Steward and the lady."

"We?" McCoy responded, dumbfounded. There was still work to be done, dressings to check, stitches to do over…

She gave him a look of disapproval, and had the air of one who didn't often get to boss others around. It seemed she relished the opportunity. "Ioreth told me to show you how to do it. Now follow me. We can't keep the new Steward waiting."

"Why do _healers_ need to be versed in the art of table-waiting?" McCoy was on the verge of shoving the bowl back into her hands and getting on with his business. "Whoever this Steward is, I'm sure he can pour a cup of tea without supervision."

The glower he got in return was unexpected. "He," the young nurse began, "has not the strength to lift a cup, let alone a teapot. You may hold the same opinion as Denethor, but I say sacrificing himself in defense of Osgiliath has earned him this at least!"

She spun around angrily. McCoy was still left holding the bowl. "Now wait a minute!" He started after her. "Just who the blazes is Denethor?"

~/\~

They were back in the royal ward, though the place had just about cleared out. In fact, most of the common areas were empty. It was time for that waiting game they'd been dreading so long. Eomer had left, and Gimli too. McCoy hadn't seen either of them leave, but he doubted those two were the kind to back down from a fight. Some of the nurses had given him sideways glances, but his 'new boss' was dishing out glares right back. He supposed they expected him to be off with the soldiers.

His supervisor stopped outside a wooden door. "Lord Faramir's room."

McCoy looked at her blankly.

She rolled her eyes. "The _Steward_ , Lord Faramir."

"…of Osgiliath?"

"Of Minas Tirith! Of Gondor!" She looked like she wanted to smack him, but she kept her voice down. This was still a hospital. "Were you blessed with healing hands and cursed with a fool's wit?"

 _That_ McCoy understood. And took offense to. "I'm not from around here." He ground out. "Just got here a few days ago. Don't know nothin' about your dark lord Sharon, your Gondor, or your Steward whats-his-face. I'm just an old country doctor."

She regarded him again, less with disdain and more with exasperated confusion. How many times did he have to apologize for not knowing a blasted thing about this place?

"Let's just give the poor man his tea." McCoy gave the door a quick knock before swinging it open. His supervisor's face paled. Well, he wasn't much one for protocol anyhow.

There was a single bed situated by the window. Light poured into the room and lit up the bed's occupant. This Steward was a young man, probably younger than Jim, and so swathed in blankets and bandages, he was about half mummy. He looked up at his visitors in confusion. McCoy determined that his young man was likely under some mighty fine sedatives. Must be because of all that sacrificing himself.

"It's time for your tea." McCoy got straight to the point. The man started to sit up, whether it was to wave them off or otherwise protest, the good doctor was not gonna hear it. "I don't want any argument from you, y'hear? Ioreth and this young lady pulled me out of the main ward to make sure you get your tea, so by gum you're gonna drink it."

The young man's eyes widened, but he sank back onto the pillows. Maybe this was why Ioreth sent him. The Steward may be an ornery patient, but Leonard McCoy would not be intimidated by anybody, be they the wife of the High Teer or the skinny young Steward of Minas-whatever.

"Now." He set down the mortar and pestle. "How does one go about doin' this?"

If possible, the Steward became paler. "Are you not a healer? If you do not know how to-"

"Those are the risks of on-the-job training, son." McCoy grinned. This might turn out to be pretty fun. "But don't worry. You're in good hands. If worse comes to worse, I've not lost an amputee yet."

The Steward looked fit to faint, and McCoy's good-cop sprang into action. "That is hardly a way to speak to the Steward, healer." She made sure every ounce of consternation she could muster seeped into her tone. "We are here to make Kingsfoil tea, which is a _medicine_ , need I remind you! It will help the Steward heal."

Said Steward didn't look all that reassured. "If it is all the same to you-"

"Hate to interrupt again, but no it is not." McCoy cracked his knuckles and looked back and forth between the leaves and the teapot. "I dunno about you, but this looks pretty straightforward. Steep the leaves, sweeten, and serve?"

She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Sweeten the medicine?"

"Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down." It popped out of McCoy's mouth before he could think. "In the most delightful way."

Now they were both looking at him funny. "Well, do you want sweet tea or bitter leaf water? We're gonna get one or the other into your system. Might as well let you take your pick."

"I'll take the sweetened tea." The Steward said. McCoy took great delight in his supervisor's expression. She'd obviously expected him to choose differently.

"Good call, son. Where do we keep the sugar in this joint?"

The nurse stood. "I will fetch it. Make sure the leaves steep properly." She headed out the door and left the pair of them alone. McCoy picked up a leaf and got ready to crush it to bits. The Steward raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, why bring the blasted thing if we're not gonna use it?" He took the mortar and pestle and got to work. "Besides, I bet this gets all the good stuff to come out. What is this Kingsfoil stuff anyhow?"

His words still weren't reassuring. The Steward didn't take his eyes off the tray for a second. "It is _athelas_ , a herb with powerful healing properties."

"You don't say."

The Steward blinked. "It has brought me back from the brink of death thus far, but that in the hands of the king. Not the hands of…"

"An ordinary healer?"

"I am beginning to question if you are even that."

McCoy snorted. "Doubt my credentials if you like. Goodness knows everybody here thinks I'm a few bricks short of a load. But, one thing I do take seriously is healing." He paused his work and looked the Steward in the eye. "My bedside manner may not be what you're accustomed to, but my practice is no joke."

The Steward nodded. Apparently, he found the explanation sincere enough. "Very well. I do not know you, but I trust Ioreth with my life. If she has left you in charge of my care, then I will not argue." The young man actually cracked a smile. "Though I may not be too pleased about it."

Grinning back, McCoy dumped the contents of his bowl into the teapot. "I'll have you know I'd feel much more at home doing surgery. It's a grisly business, don't get me wrong, but at least down there I'm sure I'm doing the most good. Every patient is important, but I can see you're shorthanded here."

The Steward nodded. "It's true, Healer…?"

"McCoy. Leonard McCoy. And you are? I reckon I've heard your name once or twice, but I've never heard half the names and places before today, and they're getting mighty confusing."

That got a smile out of the young man. "I am Faramir, and believe me I know the feeling. With so many of our allies appearing at the same time, there are a lot of names to learn and faces to remember. As it turns out, even the smallest of acquaintances have turned out to be vital."

McCoy nodded and took that in stride. "I've only been introduced to a few folks since I arrived two… or three days ago. Hard to keep track. I can count the names I know for sure on one hand. Why, the first person I met started spitting out so much information, I'm not even sure I've processed that correctly."

Faramir nodded, but cocked his head to one side. "You have only been here a few days?"

"Yep. Got here right after the big battle. That made things a heckuva lot more difficult."

"How did you arrive in the city? Surely you did not ride in with the Rohirrim. They are…" Faramir paused. He seemed to be looking for a description that wouldn't come across the wrong way.

"No, please finish. I've heard worse from Gimli, I reckon."

Faramir smiled awkwardly. "I mean no offense, but the Horse Lords are a very distinct group of people. You are no more a member of the Rohirrim than you are a hobbit."

That made about as much sense as anything else: none. But, McCoy had to get Faramir off the 'how' and 'where' and back on track with the questions the Prime Directive would let him answer. "Don't have a horse to speak of, anymore. It was just me and a wagon's worth of supplies out in the middle of your front yard." Not exactly a lie. McCoy stirred the tea and continued in that vein. "The supplies were supposed to go somewhere else, but Gimli brought me back here and convinced me y'all needed them more."

"For that, I will have to thank him." Faramir commented. "Though I do not know him myself. Is Gimli with the Rohirrim?"

It was McCoy's turn to be amused. "Well, like you said, they're awful particular folk but no. Gimli is uh…" He paused. Obviously there was more than one humanoid race in play here. He'd seen the not-Vulcan already. But, that didn't mean he knew what was what.

"He sure showed me the business end of his axe. But you'd know him on sight. Short, great bushy beard, temper like…" He couldn't say like a Tellarite. "…like you wouldn't believe."

Faramir apparently read between the lines, though he gave no indication that he knew this was a guessing game. "I had no idea dwarves had come with the Rohirrim. Perhaps this crisis is great enough to unite the races of Middle Earth after all."

"You betcha." McCoy replied quickly. He had no idea what the man was saying, but the less anybody knew about how far away he _really_ came from, the better. "I reckon I'm the only able-bodied man left in the city, save a handful of guards the others left behind. It's some kind of last stand from what I gather."

"They will try to take the Black Gate." Faramir sighed, leaning deeply into his pillows. "If the hobbits took the route they led us to believe, then they may need help from within Mordor."

McCoy didn't know whether to take this for fever-talk or something he ought to put to memory. Either way, he didn't have time to ask. Just then, his supervisor returned with the sugar.

"Ioreth wants you back in the main ward. A patient has torn his stitches. I will bring the lady her tea."

McCoy stood. "That's my cue. You rest well, son. Don't make me come all this way back to spoon out sugar."

Faramir smiled at the joke. "I promise it will be worth your effort, healer."

 **A/N: The plot, it thickens**


	6. Ain't Dead Yet, Jim

**A/N: Gracious me, it's been a while! How's it going, folks? I'm still alive, and much more active on AO3, but since this story never got finished (and I got quite into LOTR Online) I thought it was about time to start finishing up my WIPs, isn't it?**

After passing straight out the day before, McCoy wasn't sure where he ought to sleep. He hunted down the ever-moving Ioreth and awkwardly asked where he ought to hit the hay.

"I'm afraid to say we'll be needing you close by. All of our nurses are capable, but sometimes men only heed the advice of other men." She put her hands on her hips and looked around. "The cot you used earlier should still be empty. And, it will be close enough to recall you from, if needed. You have been doing wonders with the Rohirrim."

"Oh. Sounds good." McCoy didn't make any response to her last comment. The less anybody connected him to the Third whatsit of Rohan, the better. People were asking him enough hard questions as it was. "I'll get a few hours and come back. How about you? Where are you resting, ma'am?"

It seemed impertinent. Downright forward if you asked any of the nurses in earshot. Ioreth understood what he meant, though.

"If you are insinuating that I need rest…" Ioreth rubbed a hand across her face. "You are right. It has been hard to find the time, of late."

"Don't I know it." McCoy sympathized. Things seem fairly calm for the moment. How 'bout we both take a few hours off, let your competent nurses mind the store?"

Ioreth fixed him with a wry smile. "You are conniving, Healer. I take it you have heard this argument before?"

McCoy chuckled. "Don't you know it. I've heard it from my Captain, my Head Nurse, the First Officer, the Chief Engineer…" He ticked off the list on his fingers, "… and a dozen others besides. It seems after givin' so much input on others' health, they feel entitled to dish it right back."

They went their separate ways, McCoy to his cot, Ioreth to wherever she slept on the regular. He rolled himself onto the stretched fabric and sighed. It wouldn't help him sleep to think about the day. Heck, he was better off just dropping like he did back in Med school.

He awoke to a fuzzy feeling in his eyes and the sense that all wasn't quite right in the world. For once thing, it was too blasted quiet. What medieval infirmary didn't have a single coughing, sneezing, or snoring person anywhere in earshot?

McCoy sat up, fumbled for a candle, and let his eyes adjust to the moonlight so he could find a match. Now that he had an adequate light source, he could check and see just what wasn't going on that was bothering him so much.

The night was still. With everyone off to the Gates and More Doors, McCoy wasn't sure who ought to be patrolling… But there should be someone, right? He got up and started wandering. There were a few sounds of sleeping patients and shuffling blankets that assured him all was somewhat well, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something else was wrong in the world.

He took his candle down the halls and searched for another soul awake. The Houses of Healing were unlike houses in the traditional sense, but maze-like and foreign in their complexity. They called some sort of memory from him, of fairy tales and King Arthur, only more ethereal if possible. McCoy poked his head out into the moonlight and this impression was only affirmed.

The white stonework of the city was present here. It soaked up the moonlight and held it there like so many little screens. The pale glow bounced back and forth from plants to pillars, all the while staying so still as to make him wonder if this wasn't an image carved from a dream. There were stars he didn't know, and a moon perfectly unfamiliar to him. But, the round white rock up in the sky seemed to have the same effect on the ground below.

McCoy was about to turn away when he saw a hint of movement further into the garden. Along one wall overlooking the city and the fields he had appeared in, there was a fence of white stone. A figure stood swathed in shadow, but a figure it was. Either this was a nurse, or an escapee. As a doctor, McCoy didn't know if he could walk away from either at this time of night.

He took a step that way. Unfortunately, floors of stone and walls of stone made echoes like no other. The sound bounced straight to the figure's ears and a gasp greeted McCoy. Though shrouded, he was overcome with the sensation of eye contact with the person before him.

Silently, they stumbled back and fell.

Of course, this wasn't going to sit well with McCoy, startling folks on the parapet. He cupped the candle in his hands and hurried forward. "Are you alright? Awful sorry for scarin' you like that…"

It was a woman, vaguely familiar, and dressed in the kind of light and flowy gown typical of ladies who found themselves in need of medical attention around here. As she leaned into the moonlight, her hair became more visible. Blonde. Rohirrim, if he had to hazard a guess. Had she been on the battlefield?

"My apologies again." He set the candle on the stonework and bent to offer her his hand. "I'm uh… the Healer McCoy, if we haven't met."

She stared at him a long moment before reaching for his hand. Seemed like she was surprised it was solid. McCoy helped her to her feet and stooped back down for his candle. The contact didn't break on her end and he frowned at the floor before recomposing his features.

"While I, for one, am a fond of some good ol' fresh air—Well, I reckon you've been asked to rest up until you're recovered already." He gave her a warm smile, which did little to alter the frozen disbelief on her face. Heaven help him, this might be one of the ones from the trauma ward scarred speechless by battle. He'd seen his fair share of PTSD patients, but he could never seem to make it easier for them. If only there was a quicker cure, a balm other than time and therapy to take the horrors from their minds.

But she surprised him. "I could not sleep. I cannot, knowing they are out fighting for our lives. My brother I know will lead the charge if he can." She took a deep breath and broke off her piercing gaze for the first time since they had met. "So much pain and sickness- I would rather die by the sword than wither here."

One of the women hidden in the horsemen? He knew her face, but beyond that- Think, McCoy, where's this gal popped up before?

"Who says you gotta wither?" Since she hadn't released his hand, he opted to give hers a gentle squeeze. "They didn't want me to go either, and probably not just because I know my way around-…" he fumbled for just a moment on 'hacksaws and amputations', quickly settling with "…herbs and cures. Just ask Gimli. I'm sure the rascal was the first to put me on the home-fires."

What might've once been a smile fell upon the young woman's face. She was one touched by sadness, the kind of melancholy that seemed to run in the very veins of these people. How long had they been at war? What kind of loss, what kind of damage had been inflicted upon their hearts? And what kind of foe, he wondered, could do such damage to a great city like this one? He'd seen the walls and levels of the city torn asunder. Great fires stacked with hastily chopped timbers had burned on the fields. How had these folk stood against an enemy with siege weapons like that?

Conditions like these would wear anybody down. No wonder the poor lady had something keeping her up. Maybe he could distract her with something, provide some kind of hope in the midnight gloom.

"You said your brother would be out there on the final assault. He… he visit often? Or did he not know you were here amongst your uh… new comrades in arms?"

The ghost smile brightened a touch before it fell again. Apparently, the memory was bittersweet. "He did not know I accompanied the army. But I would not be denied my chance for glory in battle, so I stole away with one of the Halflings- Meriadoc. Though we felled the Witch-King of Angmar, I suppose it is still a woman's place to stay behind, once a woman she is revealed."

All that to say, it seemed, that her brother had something to do with it. The staying behind. While a lot of the proper nouns didn't make a lick of sense, to McCoy, he'd figured that after proving capable in battle, she expected to be invited back.

"Though I can't deny the possibility, I do wanna point out that this is a hospital gown you're wearing. Sure they didn't just leave you behind because you're hurt?"

That got her attention back on him. Something dark seemed to fall behind her eyes and she nodded. "The Black Breath. They say that Gandalf had some hand in it, though talk had spread about Aragorn and the hands of a king… Do not think me ungrateful."

It was a sad mix of emotions on her face. McCoy really felt for the girl. How many times had he been on the ship when Jim and Spock were wrestling with a disaster? They'd been imprisoned, assaulted, poisoned, captured, shot, beaten- all while he'd been left to twiddle his thumbs and hope he had antidotes stocked up in spades.

But something else clicked too. "Gandalf? Now don't tell me you're the lovely young lady His Fussiness Eómer has been sweatin' over!"

The emotion that registered with her next was pure surprise. "You have met with my brother?"

McCoy nodded. "You bet. He was worried sick about you, enough to drag me out of bed and march me down to your sickroom just to see what all the fuss was about." He played up the mischief and madness in the affair for her benefit. "I tell you what- that Aragorn of Gondor or wherever he's from sure didn't look like a healer to me- let alone a king! Daresay I put my foot in my mouth when he waltzed up like he owned the place. Then again, I suppose he does."

Her brows knit together in confusion, but some of the shadow had lifted from her face. "Know you not Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir?"

McCoy shook his head. "Not until we were hastily introduced the other day. And just between you and me, I think the man needs a good bath before he takes the throne."

She was caught in a more difficult tug of war between indignation and the laughter walled up in her throat. After a moment, she recomposed. "He is the savior of Rohan and of Gondor and you show him no allegiance?"

He was still wearing a bit of a grin. "Well, I'm from Georgia, so he's no king of mine. Besides, it's not like any of them are about to put me on the chopping block. That fool brother of yours owes me one for pulling his haunches out of the fire."

At her somewhat mortified and confused look, he continued. "The man was running wild lookin' for you on the lower levels in such a state that he nearly passed out from the blood loss before we could get him here. I tell you what- if he ever claims women hysterical in your earshot again you ask him if he remembers gettin' dragged to a cot while he was snortin' like a bronco itchin' to buck."

Eówyn- that was her name!- was speechless. McCoy feared he had overstepped a boundary until she began to nod. Her lips twitched in a smile not quite willing to form. "He is stubborn as a mule. I…" Some hitch in her train of though caused her to pause, but she continued quickly. "I can imagine that it would be difficult for someone else to have guided him. But tell me- I have not heard of 'Georgia'. Is it so far from Edoras? To the south, I imagine."

"To the south…" McCoy replied carefully. "Very far from uh… Edoras, you said?"

She frowned at him. "Surely you must know Edoras. And Meduseld, is it not the seat of your king?" Her hand tightened around his and McCoy was starting to think he was in hot water.

"My uh, country has no king at present." Seemed like a common enough ailment on this planet. "Not Gondor either. Further away."

This announcement caused a new wave of conflict to crash in the moonlight. Eówyn's frown deepened as she looked at him with new intensity. Her eyes searched his face for something, and she wasn't finding it. In that moment, it clicked. McCoy knew she must be making the same mistake a few others had so far.

"I'm not from Rohan, if you were wondering. Quite a few fellas downstairs were delirious enough to mistake me for some kind of fighter. Though in their rights minds I don't reckon anybody could make that mistake."

Eówyn bit her lip. "So you say." She paused for a long moment. "Even I mistook you for a moment. Appearing so suddenly under this moon of death and unnatural days… After Aragorn summoned his army of the dead I thought-…"

She was interrupted by two voices in tandem.

"Army of the dead?!-"

"-Healer McCoy?"

They both turned to find the Steward Faramir up and out in the gardens as well. He looked weak still under McCoy's medical eye, but if he was strong enough to soothe his insomnia by roaming, then he must be on the mend.

McCoy did take the opportunity to scowl. "Alright, one listless night owl I can abide, but not two." He ignored Faramir mouthing 'night owl?' in confusion and began steering Eówyn towards the doorway.

"Would you mind showin' the lady back to her room? I reckon you'd know where, bein' in the fancy ward yourself. Oh, excuse me, Miss Eówyn, meet Faramir, Steward of Osgiliath."

"Steward of Gondor, Healer, but it is still my pleasure to make your acquaintance my lady." He bowed and winced when the movement proved too much for his stiff muscles. Laying around all day recuperating could do that to you.

Eówyn was looking at them both like they'd claimed to be rodeo clowns in town for a show, but McCoy was giving Faramir his best Doctor's Glare. The kind that struck fear into captains, knights, and hobgoblins alike.

"I will of course aid her on her way back, since it seems my estimates of your knowledge are turning up accurate."

Leave it to some Steward of Who-Cares-Where to give him the most irritatingly Vulcan diss ever seen outside the starship Enterprise. Even that blasted eyebrow was too much.

"Oh, you best get goin' before I show you how much I really know about medicine!"

"And if I do not reach the doorway quickly enough, I am afraid I shall hear it in its entirety."

Ooh boy this Steward was quick. Little upstart deserved all the crushed kingsfoil he got. But, it seemed the young lady was fixin' to burst with the laughter she had to hold back. Not a total loss.

"Oh, I may have promised to 'Do No Harm' but I'm not gonna 'Take No-" His eyes flicked to the lady and back. "-Guff off of the likes of you! We'll see how that smart mouth of yours clams up when I show you the kinda medicine we break out in the main ward! Now get on back to bed before I tell Ioreth where you've been!"

He'd not saved much face, but it got the pair of the skittering back to the royal ward. McCoy crossed his arms and sighed before looking up at Eówyn's 'unnatural moon' and the stars that accompanied it.

"Scotty, if you're up there, you owe me a drink."

 **A/N: Before any of you ask, Level 35 Dwarf Guardian, Ally of The Hall, named 'Throwan Dieshands'**

 **Yes, I sat on 15 levels waiting for a surname for THAT JOKE**


	7. Chapter 7

There wasn't much time to clown around with so many injured, but it seemed everyone was going to find a way. Not five days since the armies left and the whole place had gone to pot. McCoy was close to pulling his hair out from the strain. It wasn't like a ship full of Starfleet officers (childish though they were). This was a whole 'nother ballgame.

"What, were y'all raised in a barn?" McCoy hollered upon finding not one but three soldiers engaging in a spitting match from their very sickbeds. His ire and his blood pressure were up. "And you! With the yardstick! _Get out!_ "

Nurses and mobile patients scattered at his approach. "What kinda madhouse are we runnin' here? Just pack it all up an' tell the armies to not bother comin' back _here_ , since we can't stop _behaving like animals!_ " His voice rose to a yell as he snatched a half-empty bowl of soup out of a horseman's hands. The perfectly lucid fool- as McCoy knew from breaking up storytime with the nurses- was trying to stash his dinner under _his pillow_ for later.

"And _that's another thing!_ "

"Healer McCoy!"

" _WHAT."_

He turned around and found Steward Faramir, looking less than sure of his interruption now that he was face to face with the bull in the china shop. Luckily he had Ioreth to hide behind. She looked amused, but not liable to confirm it anytime soon.

"I believe you're due for your lunch. Lady Eówyn and Master Meriadoc have invited you to the upper gardens. I believe I will be able to take it from here."

McCoy was breathing heavily and likely looking like a madman. Maybe lunch was a good idea. He took a steadying breath and forcefully dropped his shoulders, straightening up to a respectable height. He looked Ioreth square in the eye. The woman didn't so much as blink.

"If you can stop these lunatics from burning the whole place down, I'll leave you to it." He turned a suspicious eye on Faramir. "And you. Joining us for lunch, or engaging in a very restful and non-taxing activity?"

Faramir actually looked half-afraid before pulling that blasted face again. "Only the most restful, Healer. I have a great many reports to hear, and they will all come to me. No venturing out into the battlefields without a clue as to what I am about."

" _Who told you-"_ he stopped short with a glance at Ioreth. _Deep breath in_. "I'm off to lunch. If we need anything amputated, _please_ don't hesitate to call me."

McCoy stormed out to find a shirt that was a little less sweaty. They'd given him two, some kind of reward for not strangling anyone. In actuality, the Houses of Healing got along very well without his intervention. Odds were the men were getting nervous now that their comrades in arms would be storming the gates of hell, so it seemed. These More Doors opened into a land of monsters and evil beyond comprehension if McCoy could take their word as truth. Given the varied nature of the species he'd seen so far (man, elf, dwarf, et cetera) McCoy didn't doubt that there were stranger things lurking in the depths of the planet.

He changed into something less gritty, smoothed his hair as best as he could without so much as the advent of shampoo, and started asking around for Eówyn and Marry-A-Dock.

A stoic but helpful guard showed him the way. It seemed the lady had the privilege of taking tea and sandwiches in the Steward's private garden. _Wonder how she'd swung that, crafty girl?_ McCoy rolled his eyes at the transparency of youth and made his way through the white archways of the upper level. He found the garden filled with flowers and well-kept shrubbery. The kind of thing nobles would be into, he supposed. Maybe he ought to get himself a gig like this back in the Federation. Easy livin', lunches with nobility.

As he strolled up to the table, Lady Eówyn greeted him with a wave. Her companion, a small child, looked over and- _oh dear, my mistake._ McCoy was surprised to see the telltale signs of age on the, well, man's face. He wasn't looking at some middle-aged dwarf like Gimli, but this person was far from the child his height led one to believe. McCoy had a wealth of experience in dealing with xenobiology. Enough to know that _this_ must be 'Master Somethin'-the-Dock'.

"Lady Eówyn." He gave her a nod and then turned to her companion. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure. I'm D- Healer McCoy."

The small person inclined his head and offered McCoy a seat. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, but you may call me Merry. And the pleasure is all mine, sir. I'm told what wonders you've worked with Miss Eówyn, the lord Eómer, and the Steward Faramir. We're lucky to have someone like you here in Aragorn's stead."

McCoy took his seat and raised an eyebrow. "He's that good is he? Could've fooled me."

Eówyn pointedly stared into her tea and Merry cracked a grin. "He's an odd one for sure. But resourceful. Though we differ on the finer points of a good meal, I suppose he's a decent sort." He was looking to see on what level Eówyn might be getting frustrated, but she seemed to be onto his game. No comment from the lady. Merry shrugged and kept going.

"I can't complain. He saved Frodo from the Black Rider's sword like he saved the two of us. Apparently, there's a saying that the hands of the king are the hands of a healer. Didn't seem much like a king when we met him, but I suppose a lot's happened since then."

McCoy listened to the chatter about this and other subjects ranging from 'pipeweed' to walking trees and the overpowering of the Isen Guard. Whoever they were seemed to have an aversion to water, or something. Maybe they built the dam and then guarded it? They were servants of Sharon too, he gathered. It was all very quickly told. Merry seemed excited and McCoy reckoned that, although not a youth, Merry was young. He was awful similar to the green ensigns chatting in the mess about their latest escapades.

"So, tell me about Goor-gah, Healer. Lady Eówyn tells me you are from a faraway kingdom!"

"Georgia?" He looked to the Lady in question and then back to Merry. "Well, I suppose… It's not near as exciting as Gondor. We have farms and cattle and horses and a few cities but none like Minas…?"

"Tirith."

"Minas Tirith, thank you. No, none so grand. But, we do most of our travel via ship."

"Like the ones Aragorn rode in with the ghosts on?"

"With Captains and everything." Let the kid think what he liked. "My ship is called the _Enterprise_ and my Captain is James Kirk, renowned commander and explorer. We roam the g-… great expanses and search for new places as part of a big ol' alliance of ships and… peoples who have united their resources to live in peace with one another."

Merry was looking a little star struck and even Eówyn had dropped her indignant act to listen.

"Gee-or-gia sounds like a wonderful place, Healer McCoy. But, if there are so many of you exploring, how come no one's ever heard of it?"

This one was easier to answer. "I think I'm the first. I was headed somewhere with my wagon's worth of supplies and somehow I ended up on the field out there the day after the battle. Or the day of? I'm not really sure."

"The first explorer!" Merry said, lost in thought. "You know, I suppose Pip was the first hobbit in Gondor now that I think of it. At least, the first one in an age. I don't know. Have you ever heard of a hobbit coming to visit before, Lady Eówyn?"

She shook her head. "No, and I believe you two were the first in Edoras as far as I know. Many believe you to be people of myth."

Merry grinned at that. "A myth! Well, I wonder what Pip has to say about that."

McCoy pointed his medieval fork-spoon at Merry's plate. "For a myth, you can sure put it away. How many sandwiches was that?"

"Six." Merry replied somewhat proudly. "But, in the Golden Wood Pippin and I vanished more loaves of _lembas_ than you'd believe. Legolas was sure surprised. But, that's what he gets for underestimating us Shire-folk."

McCoy, as usual understood about half of it. He was about to laugh and try the tea, when suddenly his saucer trembled. The tiny piece of porcelain shook against the teacup, followed shortly by every other breakable in the vicinity. Soon, the whole table could feel it. The lunch party shot out of their seats and Eówyn pointed to the west.

"Look!"

She hardly needed to say it. An unnatural dark was falling over the mountains, clouds rumbling and rippling out from what seemed like a central area. It was the oddest storm McCoy had ever seen, and it was only getting bigger.

"To the balcony!" Merry called, hopping out of his seat and dashing towards the doorway.

McCoy was less quick to follow. He knew the dangers of earthquakes, unnatural or no. Inside was statistically not a good place to be. Although, with the city in pieces as it was, was anywhere safe?

He had trouble keeping up with Merry, but Eówyn shot right past him. Soon, they were out the other side and on the balcony with several onlookers. The black clouds were tinged with red, like fire. The whole thing looked angry. Billowing with a wind and fury McCoy couldn't localize, the storm swirled outward until it blocked the sun. The only light available was bounced, filtered, or sporadic due to the lightning. It wasn't a natural storm.

If he hadn't believed before, well… McCoy might have to admit that there _were_ wizards in the land. What phenomena could explain away _this?_

"It has begun." Faramir was at his side, hands clasping Eówyn's as they both watched the sky boil.

"The… _That's_ Sharon?"

Faramir couldn't take his eyes off the horror in the sky to give McCoy one of his looks. "The Eye is showing us the power of Mordor. We can only pray Frodo and Sam make it before…"

Before that last ditch effort by what was left of the armies of men failed. McCoy knew a little about that one. From what he'd gleaned, it was all a distraction until Frodo and Sam, whoever they were, could get 'The Ring' to 'Mount Doom', whatever that meant. He was starting to think the weight of the world really did rest on their shoulders. All drama aside, this was bad news.

The wind blew in like a stormfront and the wobbling ground would occasionally have them grabbing for the handrail. For what was a very long, very dark time, everything seemed to be at the mercy of whatever power lay beyond the mountains.

And then it wasn't. McCoy couldn't explain it, but it felt as if an evil presence had departed. It was like when Hengist's presence was shot into space- whatever oppressive force had held them all transfixed was now in a million little pieces. The clouds stopped writhing and the ground stilled. The walls of Minas Tirith held their breath.

The clouds parted and stilled. There was a pregnant pause, and as one the city gave a rousing cheer. Faramir and Eówyn spun, soldiers hollered, and Merry attempted to climb the low wall in his jubilation. McCoy stopped him from falling to his death, but that only encouraged the hobbit to engage _him_ in the celebration. It seemed the whole city had awoken, had poked its head out from under a rock for the first time in an age. Frodo and Sam, bless them, had done what this planet so desperately needed done.

"Ready the Houses of Healing!" Faramir called to the crowd. "Ready the banquet halls! When the army returns there will be sadness yes, but we must feast. For the darkness that once choked out the light in this world is gone!"

That got another hoot and holler from the whole gang. All assembled seemed to be caught up in the party of it all. McCoy was still staring at that cloudbreak. For all the death and pain he'd seen, this was something truly beautiful. Golden light bled into the cores of the clouds and washed the landscape in its glow. The air was crisp on top of the city. Everything dark seemed to recede, except… whatever it was that was flying out from behind the mountains.

"Merry…" McCoy called over amidst the celebration. "What's that?" He pointed out in the distance and Merry followed his line of sight. The hobbit squinted into the light. Suddenly his eyes widened, and his face broke out into a grin.

"It's the Eagles! I bet they have Frodo and Sam! Everyone!" he turned to the crowd. "The Eagles are coming! They made it!"

The balcony erupted again as everyone set their sights on the far-off beating wings. McCoy watched as the biggest birds he'd ever seen drifted slowly into view.

"They're not riding them." Merry observed after a while. His eyes must be keener than the average human's, because McCoy couldn't make out a thing. "It's probably easier for the Eagles anyway. I doubt Sam would be comfortable either way, bless him."

They got closer. McCoy could see the great brown birds a ways off. Most people were watching their approach with excitement, cheering louder as the Eagles drew near. As they came right overhead, the crowd roared at their heroes in welcome and something hit McCoy's hand on the handrail. He looked down. Immediately, he could identify the splatter of red on the pristine stonework.

" _Everybody move! Out of my way, NOW!"_


	8. Chapter 8

McCoy didn't know much about armies. Not much, but he knew they marched slow. As was now becoming the new norm, the Houses of Healing were in an uproar regarding the return of the last stand of men against the Gates and Doors and all that. But he and Ioreth were putting their heads together for an altogether more daunting task.

There were two hobbits dying in their care, and McCoy was a hair's breadth from crossing the line on the Prime Directive. _Perhaps._

Ioreth threw her hands in the air as she paced in the supply closet. "Again! One more time, and _maybe_ this wild yarn you're spinning will amount to sense!"

His perch on the footstool was uncomfortable for more than one reason. Ioreth was sharp, and she wasn't having any of his bull. McCoy needed to cook up something and quick.

"Alright." He sighed. "Here's as much of the truth as I've got."

That put a halt in Ioreth's pacing. McCoy took a deep breath before continuing.

"I wasn't lying to Merry when I said I was the first explorer from my land to come here. Even though I'm no military man or navigator or any of the important things like that-... We have rules. Anybody who goes to a new land for the first time- if it's not… If there are Men in the land, we're supposed to act as scouts first. I'm not allowed to say anything about the place I'm from, or the things I have. Had y'all not caught me with 'em right out the gate, I would've been duty bound to hide the crates until I met up with someone else from my ship."

McCoy paused. "That's our law. And as a member of… our crew, I have to abide by it. But as a- healer, it's harder." He had carefully hidden what he could from Ioreth. Luckily, tricorders look pretty innocuous closed and without power. Most of the truly mind-blowing stuff he'd been able to hide, but the Head Healer had seen enough to know he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"So you won't help them." She said flatly.

"Now I never said that!" McCoy rose from his seat indignantly. "What you're not hearing is that I'm not _magic._ I'm not Gandalf with his staff and mysterious ways and a hundred or so names! All the things I've brought are things all my people can use. They're just… refined herbs and medicines inside our special devices. And we don't _have_ kingsfoil where I'm from." He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "This Black Breath everyone keeps catching- I don't have a magic cure for it."

"But one of your boxes-"

"They don't _do_ that!" He nearly erupted again. "It's like- You don't have your nurse put a hand to a patient's forehead to _cure_ a fever do you?" She shook her head. "Because that's what those little boxes do. They're gonna say 'oh boy these fellas sure are feverish' and we're right back at square one!"

Ioreth dragged a hand down her face and groaned. It was more a sound of resignation than anything else. "Forgive me for accusing you thus. I'm sure you're aware of how weary I- how weary _we all are._ "

McCoy nodded. "I know. And I wish there was more I could do to help. But all we have is stone knives, bear-skins, and our wits and we're gonna have to make do."

At this, Ioreth straightened up and adjusted her apron. She had a bone-tired look about her. Exhaustion lined every crease in her face.

"Fine. Let us make do."

/*\\\

Everybody and their blasted, dadgum dog wanted to talk to the 'two bravest halflings that ever lived' and McCoy was this close to fending them off with a broomstick. Three near-sleepless days of the most backwards, medieval medicine he could muster up and he was sick to death of people trying to undo all his hard work.

Merry, he had reluctantly allowed a visit. And the Steward, who apparently knew the halflings- _hobbits_ , whatever- well enough to differentiate the two. Yes, there had been a test at the door for anyone claiming kinship with the two recuperating inside. Yes, McCoy had chased off all but Faramir.

Word was beginning to spread, and few dared face the wrath of the 'mad healer' that Ioreth had long since left to guard the room on his own. At least the patients within weren't trying to escape, and there wasn't a Vulcan in sight to nerve pinch him. All the onlookers could take their rubbernecking and shove it. McCoy wasn't budging from this spot.

Especially not for the guard and the two hooded men walking with all sorts of purpose his way.

"Sorry, gents, but nobody's seeing the hobbits until Aragorn himself gets back. So unless you wanna take it up with the Steward, then I suggest you take-"

"We have no intention of disturbing their rest, Healer."

"Aye. 'Twas you we came t'see, McCoy. I cannae imagine the argument you'd have for that-…"

He about died on the spot. Perfect timing, wasn't it? No sleep, no breaks, no _sense_ in this dadgum _madhouse-_

"Spock, Scotty, if they'd let me carry a weapon I'd flay you both alive!"

He ignored Spock's pointed "Thank you" to the accompanying guard and strode forward to accept Scotty's hug. He'd been so wrapped up in the goings-on in Minas Tirith he'd almost forgotten the possibility of a rescue.

"What a strange way to greet your crewmates, Doctor!" Scotty said with a grin as McCoy stepped back and knocked the hood off his head.

To that, McCoy scowled. "Really! Comin' in here dressed like specters tryin' to scare me- Spock, take that fool thing off."

"Doctor, if you had not yet noticed-"

"They got elves here, y'ain't shocking anybody!"

Spock's eyebrows did it the roof however, as he removed his hood. The guard backed up McCoy's claim with a non-reaction. Almost. Spock _did_ differ quite a bit from the run-of-the-mill elves on this planet. He had his hair all different for one. And he seemed… strange still in a way McCoy couldn't quantify.

"Though these _northern_ elves do dress mighty different from your people." McCoy gave as a hint. "But, they seem to mostly be off with the army, which is due back any day now."

Neither Spock or Scotty knew what to do with this information. They had arrived ahead of the forces of Men, but behind all the big action. Was there a good time to explain? And how would McCoy go tip-toeing about the dance he'd been doing with the Prime Directive?

Luckily, the cards were falling his way all over the place.

Another guard appeared in the hallway. The first one stood at attention, so he must be some kind of a deal. McCoy stared expectantly.

"The Steward-" this new guard began, "-requests your presence and that of your companions at once, Healer McCoy."

"Oh goodie. Must be time for his medicine." McCoy rubbed his hands in a way that made all present pity the Steward. "Be a pal and guard that door, won't you? Nobody goes in or out unless it's Aragorn, Ioreth, or his _Stewardness_ , alright?"

The first guard saluted and took up a new post by the door. Hopefully he'd follow those orders to the letter. That, or face the wrath of every healer in the place. The second guard seemed awfully eager to leave, too, lest he somehow anger the powers that be in the healing ward.

Unfortunately, they had to hike all the way up to the seventh level to get to the chambers of the Steward. McCoy had given them the 'best just play along' sign and they'd both complied. Far be it from Starfleet officers to just go to pieces over some stairs.

Of course, there would be reports… His would be brief and he would do all he could to keep their hides out of the fire. All McCoy had to do was convince Spock and Scotty that things were a-okay. Couldn't have them rat him out.

The Steward's office was luxuriant, but not what McCoy had expected of Faramir. This was not the long, white room they had walked through earlier, but a dark space lit by firelight and adorned with animal trophies. There were signs of war and signs of peace in the gloom. On the heavy desk sat paperweights of fine metal and gemstones near ink quills made from exotic feathers. A sword rack stood to one side. Blades of varying sizes and purposes gleamed in the flickering light of a brazier. The Steward himself was buried half in paperwork, and half in a great coat of dark fur which seemed to climb over the back of his chair in an effort to reach.

Faramir broke the tension with an _"Ah!",_ hastily guzzling a cup of tea. "No need for another dose, healer, I've just taken one." He nodded to the guard. "Thank you, Thurmaen, you are dismissed."

That left the four of them in the musty room with only a crackling fire to cut the silence. Until Faramir decided he had about finished with the room.

"Well," he stood quickly and clapped his hands together, "this business stands not on such formality." With an energy McCoy couldn't source, Faramir practically bolted from the desk to the door. "Why not have our chat in the gardens, shall we?"

So they were led again through the walls and halls of the White City. Faramir seemed awfully eager to put the tight indoors behind them. On top of that, the helter-skelter pace didn't give the three Starfleet men any time to corroborate their stories. It was anyone's guess what kind of yarn Spock and Scotty would try to spin. As it was a mystery how long they'd been scouting the planet and what info they had gleaned already.

Faramir marched them out to a different garden table where they could discuss business in the open air. How different this setting seemed from the gloomy office, and yet how much more like Faramir. He took a seat in the sun and gestured for the others to follow suit. They did. Now it was just the four of them sitting around a table. Silent.

"So," Faramir began, "I hear these are other explorers from your crew, McCoy."

Leading statement as it was, it gave him an opportunity to impart some of the half-truth to the others. "Yes. These are other officers from our ship- the First Mate Spock, and our Chief Engineer Scotty." He gestured to his shipmates before continuing. "Though, I'd sure like to hear how you managed to find me after that storm and me gettin' lost and all." He turned to Faramir with a grin. "Hopeless about directions, y'know. And I'll admit we don't have storms anything like that in the south."

Hopefully that was enough clues without it seeming obvious. The Steward was possibly too quick for his own good. Scotty didn't much have a silver tongue either, but maybe Spock could swing something.

Right now, the Vulcan was giving him the most withering of non-emotional expressions. Spock was well and truly peeved.

"Indeed. It took some doing in locating you. Our route from the south and around the mountain range was treacherous, to use a human expression, and we were quite amazed that you had survived the trip. It was even more unexpected that we would find you in the service of the city…"

There was a thinly veiled 'We'll talk about this later' as Spock finished off his non-explanation. It looked like an invitation for more explanation, probably an unsubtle probe into whether or not the Prime Directive remained intact.

"Worry not, Mister Spock." Faramir said. "While we owe him a great deal, we have no designs to keep him. Your Healer is almost more trouble than he is worth."

That left Scotty howling and McCoy sputtering. Spock, probably had some comment, but at the risk of upsetting his Vulcan sensibilities made a visible effort to hold it back. When the riot calmed a bit, Faramir continued.

"In all seriousness, McCoy you have been invaluable to us and have no doubt saved a great many lives that would otherwise have been lost." He missed the look Spock shot across the table as he went on. "Ioreth tells me she has only seen a handful of men so skilled with the saw and so quick in their ministrations. We have been lacking in our medical recruitment, but now that the war is decided I shall personally institute an effort in training a new stock."

McCoy was feeling the combined heat of flattery and a Vulcan death stare. "I only did what any healer with a good bonesaw would do. I'd hardly say it was all that…"

Sensing some of his embarrassment, Faramir changed tacks. "Well, you've hardly the hands of our King, but I daresay you've done as well as any common healer. Even if your knowledge of herbs leaves _much_ to be desired."

Some of the disapproval leached out of Spock and he interjected before McCoy could 'defend' himself. "Indeed. I find McCoy's attention to matters of higher learning are often inadequate. Your statement is quite correct."

Faramir could hardly seem to believe that an 'elf' had made a joke, but he recovered quickly enough. "We will sing the praises of his hands and his blade, but not of his bedside manner."

"Alright, alright," McCoy had to butt in for the sake of his pride. "That's enough. I'd rather have no songs at all than the kind you two are proposing. Though uh, kingsfoil- If you could spare any amount at all I could study it, maybe look for more on the way home."

Faramir nodded. "A noble pursuit, since you seem to have so little knowledge of it."

Just as Spock seemed ready to ask a question of his own, another guard hurried into the courtyard. "Lord Faramir, I apologize, but Ioreth requests Healer McCoy's presence. One of the halflings has awoken."

"Well, I suppose I'll uh... catch up with you three later." It seemed McCoy was dismissed. Dismissed, and leaving his crewmates behind to both hear and tell _all sorts of things_.

Ooh boy. Maybe it would've been better if he'd had Gimli run him through with his axe.

 **A/N: Yay! Spock and Scotty at last!**


	9. Chapter 9

Samwise the Brave hadn't been what McCoy expected in the best of ways. Though tired, malnourished, bloody, and suffering from sort of exhaustion of the soul the doctor couldn't quantify, Sam was the model patient. Polite. Never had a bad thing to say, hardly complained even when he ought to. If only Starfleet would staff these sorts to the _Enterprise._

"Pardon my saying so, sir…" Sam coughed weakly. "...But I'm not needin' any special healer- Not that I don't greatly appreciate what you're doin' for me, sir. I'm just a gardener, and I don't need no fancy treatment."

It was a breath of fresh air. The ideal patient. Sam never once tried to escape, insist he was fine, or on the other end of things demand what McCoy couldn't give him.

"You're feelin' poorly, so you'll stay here and get the very best I've got. And before you go griping at me, I'd do it for any Tom, Dick, or Larry what came into my Sickbay." McCoy stirred some more ground kingsfoil into Sam's soup in the hope that it would aid his recovery. With Spock on the watch, they'd just have to throw whatever weeds they could dig up into the food and pray. No more little miracles of modern medicine.

McCoy spared a glance at his other patient- still out- and made to distract Sam with a hot meal. "Now eat your soup. The army's comin' back from the uh… Moregate."

Sam looked confused but accepted the bowl. He was at least able to sit himself up and eat, though McCoy was watching him while he went about organizing and tidying. He was bouncing back awfully quick. Of course, the first thing he'd wanted to know was Frodo's condition. McCoy had told him 'right as rain, once Aragorn gets here' and that had been answer enough.

Sam had faith in Aragorn. Most of them did. It made McCoy feel a little better about the whole 'hands of a king' thing. At least he wasn't some backwoods witch doctor looking to try magic on them. _That_ was Gandalf.

But magic or no magic, as soon as the army was back they'd bolt. Spock had made it pretty clear when they'd last spoken: no more miracles, no dilly-dallying. He'd said it in a much more Vulcan way, but the meaning was clear as crystal. They'd tarried too long in Minas Tirith. Odds were, somebody was about to notice. So Scotty was keeping an eye out for the returning troops, and Spock was perusing the library in a great effort to distract Faramir.

In the meantime, McCoy kept on with what he'd been doing.

It was their third day all together in the White City when a great cheer started rising up from outdoors. It started with guards on the sixth level, then trickled down to the houses of healing a ways, and finally reached cacophonous levels on the ground. The combined forces of whoever and whatever were back.

McCoy knew maybe two things about medieval societies as a whole: they lacked sorely in medicine save for a few exceptional folks, and they made a big to-do about triumphal entries. He figured he had about ten minutes before the whole of their patients vacated. One fidgety hobbit included.

"You mind keeping an eye on your pal Frodo for a moment?" McCoy said as casually as he could manage. "I'm going to have to find a big ol' frying pan and swing it around."

In the end, they'd had to barricade the door with their bodies. Well, McCoy's. He was bit taller than Ioreth and had a reputation of being unruly for a healer

"Now y'all hold on a minute!" he hollered above the protests. "If y'all don't quiet down, not a one of you's gonna leave, is that clear?"

The prospect of _potentially_ escaping gave them pause. McCoy nodded and cleared his throat. "Those all of you cleared for walking are allowed to leave _only_ once they've cleared the first-level gates. Once there, you rejoin your posse and make beds available for the new wounded. The rest of you stay in bed or I swear not a one of you makes it to the big shindig tonight, is that clear?""

Silence.

" _Is that clear?_ "

"Yes Healer!"

"Good!" He glowered. "Now get away from this door before I give you a _reason_ to stay in bed!"

The party dispersed and Ioreth gave him a nod. It may not have been the most diplomatic thing in the world, but it stopped a riot in progress. Besides, it had reminded everyone of another potential problem: new wounded.

And there were.

A Gondorian guard of some sort led the charge with a stretcher and the announcement of patients. McCoy found Merry hovering in search of his friend and sent him back to Sam and Frodo with all haste.

"I'll send your pal that way the minute I spot him." McCoy had promised. The minute he was clear for moving, if he was injured. They were bringing in folks pretty quick-like, and the majority of the unscathed fellas seemed to be in high spirits. With good reason. There was nowhere near as many injured this time around. Whatever challenge they had faced at the Gates and Doors, it was much less costly.

Aragorn reared his (more kingly now, McCoy had to admit) head midway through the arrival to check up on the older patients and offer his services. McCoy had sent him straight to Frodo with standing orders to not let anyone else after him. Merry's pal Pippin had made introductions as well, and the good Doctor kept his word in sending him away. Boy had twice the energy as Merry and a mischievous air to boot. Best keep him out of the main ward.

He slipped back into the role of surgeon with ease. Once, he thought he saw Scotty monitoring the situation before he was sidetracked by some guard or another. Perhaps he'd end up wandering and marveling at the war machines. Ancient Engineering might hold some points of interest for the Scotsman. Spock did not show, however, and McCoy assumed he stayed with Faramir.

It was well on into the afternoon when McCoy had the encounter he'd been dreading. There had been a lot of clues, a lot of subtle signs and connections he'd been able to make in his downtime. He felt a heavy, gloved hand on his shoulder as he washed up after a surgery and turned.

Eomer stood there grinning. He looked sweaty, filthy, but uninjured and no worse for wear. The smile that split his face was something else. Something seemed to have happened out there, and it had done him good. Maybe it was the lack of this 'shadow' everyone kept talking about.

"I am glad to see you well, Healer. I have been to visit Eowyn, and she is better, brighter than I have seen her in many days." His smile seemed to fade slightly, and McCoy figured he knew what was coming next. He'd been able to piece the puzzle together.

"I would like a private word with you, if you are not busy with the wounded."

He wasn't, in fact, busy and nodded. They slipped out into the courtyard and down a ways, past some of the hedges where he'd found Eowyn sneaking around. Eomer came to a stop. Were it not for the gravity of the situation, McCoy could've laughed at the way the man shifted on his feet like a jittery horse. Ever a healer, McCoy took the lead on this awkward conversation-to-be.

"The late Third Marshall, he was your father."

Momentarily shocked, but quickly grateful the subject had been broached, Eomer nodded. "You bear more than a passing resemblance to him-" he half gestured, "-in your face. You are both quite different in… most other ways, but after the battle…"

McCoy nodded. Confusion, the haze of shock and injury. He'd heard of men seeing stranger things. McCoy himself was no stranger to the effects a trauma could have on the mind. Hard to be a starship's doctor without it.

"I got a similar reaction from Eowyn and figured it out. Nothin' to apologize for, s-... _seeing_ as how you were mightily injured at the time. Worried, not thinkin' straight…" It wasn't hard to forgive him. Young man had the weight of the world on his shoulders nearabout.

"I do apologize for my behavior, Healer McCoy." He said solemnly. "I know you have much to do, and I will let you return to it."

He started to go, but McCoy didn't want to just leave it at that. He reached out and grabbed Eomer's arm. "One more thing."

The young man searched his face for some hint. McCoy took a breath and continued. "The men speak highly of you. Your fellas, the _Rohirrim_ , need a strong leader, and they have faith you'll fit the bill." He smiled. "You'll do your old man proud, I'm sure of it."

It was as good a place to leave off as any, for Ioreth was out looking for him.

"Healer McCoy! Guardsman Hirien has torn his stitches!"

" _Again?!"_


	10. Epilogue

There was to be a coronation, a wedding, some kind of honors banquet, the hosting of _many_ dignitaries, and all kinds of events that required Steward Faramir's brainpower. So it was with a great rush that they bid him farewell and made a hasty retreat from the city of Minas Tirith. McCoy had said subtler goodbyes to Eomer, Eowyn, and his patients. They'd tried to avoid those with more questions in an effort to keep the Prime Directive more whole than it looked at this point.

And they almost made it out, too. Unfortunately, as they were passing through the gate on the third level, something took McCoy out at the knee. He and his overzealous attacker toppled to the floor, only to be joined by another body. It was Merry and… the other one. Pippin.

"How could you! Sneaking away without saying goodbye to me and good ol' Merry! I could have Lord Faramir arrest you, you know!" Pippin declared with the air of mock offense. McCoy sighed and rolled his eyes.

"We've got the Steward's blessing to go. I think. He did a lot of hand waving and paper throwing the last time we spoke."

"Sounds like him." Merry chimed in. "We're really just to stall you until-"

"Healer! Defeated by these two rascals? You really have no combat sense!"

Scotty stifled a snort as Gimli hurried up to them, followed by one of the elves. McCoy couldn't say he'd met this one, but they all kind of looked alike. Such was often the case encountering a new species, but he hadn't had the chance to observe their characteristics enough to begin to pick them apart.

He did roll his eyes at the comment. "Not very noble of you to sic 'em on me! What, come to beg us to stay? Got a papercut you can't live with anymore?"

While the elf looked perplexed at the remark, Gimli laughed. "Your wit remains twice as sharp as your fighting prowess. No, we came to wish you farewell. You have done much for our fight, Healer, and we _are_ grateful."

Merry nodded. "You're more than welcome in the Shire anytime you come to visit. if your explorers make it up there, we're famous for our parties." Pippin nodded vigorously and McCoy couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, fellas, I make no promises, but if I'm ever in the neighborhood I'll give you a call, how's that sound?"

"D- _Healer_ McCoy, we must be on our way." Spock said. "The Captain is expecting a full report."

"I guess it's curtains for me then." McCoy and the hobbits got back to their feet, and there were handshakes all around. "Keep safe now, y'hear? Watch out for uh… orcs or whatever."

That got a chuckle out of them. They made their last farewells and hurried to where Scotty had stashed the more incendiary medical equipment. With a crate each, they got the heck outta Dodge. Ignoring the odd looks and suspicious glances from the city guards, the trio made their way out of Minas Tirith, and into some kind of outcropping against the cliff. Spock had selected the beam out point ahead of time.

He flipped open his communicator the second they were out of sight. " _Enterprise_ , we have located Doctor McCoy and request an immediate beam out."

It was a tense moment before McCoy felt the beginnings of the transport. While Spock and Scotty stayed facing the crates, McCoy took one last look over his shoulder at the rugged landscape.

And Gandalf the White.

"Aw _sh-_ "

/\\\

They solidified on the transporter platform with all three crates. McCoy looked around wildly, but Spock and Scotty didn't appear to have seen. Maybe that was a secret he'd be able to keep. Jim didn't notice one way or the other if he looked suspicious. He ran around the console and started firing off questions. An angry Captain he could deal with, piece of cake.

/\\\

"What are you doing down here? Come to see them off as well?"

Gandalf approached the impromptu picnic party with a smile. He had worried this time, as he worried once before, for the safety of young hobbits on big adventures . But Merry and Pippin had made friends with more than just those present. Legolas and Gimli, too, had survived unscathed and made a bond that had seemed unlikely given their attitudes at the start. But, today was full of surprises.

Gandalf smiled at Pippin. "Oh yes. They've made their departure. But, I have come for something far more important." He drew himself up to his full height, holding his staff authoritatively.

"Are those _raspberry_ scones?"


End file.
